


The Rehearsal

by little_toad_of_music



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom - Fandom, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Kinda tried a realism/romanticism thing, Once Upon Another Time, Romance, What Have I Done, old regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29687103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_toad_of_music/pseuds/little_toad_of_music
Summary: One-shot inspired by the LND timeline. Christine is in rehearsals for her performance and her path crosses Erik’s when she doesn’t expect it. Pretty simple, just an idea I had that I had to write out.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Um, I basically just wrote this to mess with the E/C dynamic in LND, because I feel like there’s not much of that in Phantom-related fanfiction, and I felt like exploring what their relationship might have been like on Coney. I think it would have been more reserved, almost painfully so, but not because they didn’t still have feelings for each other, and this one-shot basically just messes around with that concept. Enjoy!

The room that I was escorted to was simple, yet tasteful in a way which I would not have thought Erik capable of. The walls were a gentle cream color, and large, open windows stretched from the high ceilings nearly to the floor, framed with elegant, flowing white drapes, each of which was drawn back with a white silken cord. In fact the only piece of splendor even slightly reminiscent of Erik was the grand piano in the corner of the room, as ornate and splendid as anything I had ever sung to. Other than that, the dark, polished hardwood floor was bare, as were the walls. It was lovely, in a simple way that was rather uncharacteristic of Erik, and I felt strangely at home, as though I were in some sacred, hidden temple of music of which I had always been the high priestess. All of a sudden, I wanted to sing— to really sing, with my soul on my lips, as I had not done for years— and, all of a sudden, I knew that I could. 

It was not some great, overpowering realization, as I had often imagined it being. It was simple, sweet and natural, as though it had been waiting for me these past ten years in this lovely, secluded room on Coney, with the light streaming in through the high, arched windows and the piano resting on the shining hardwood floor. It was a quiet thing— not a cry of triumph or a sob of unbearable joy, but a whisper. Soft and gentle, welcoming. Peaceful. Intended for my ears alone. A soft smile crept across my lips. Here, in this quiet, unassuming room, I had received the gift I had thought I would never even glimpse again, the gift of music. I could sing again. Then I heard footsteps behind me, quietly echoing on the polished wood, and the spell was broken. 

I knew it was Erik before I turned around; I could not say how, but I did, as surely as I knew that I stood there. I turned, and there he was, a few sheets of music in his hand and an unreadable expression on his face behind his mask as he stood there watching me. For a long moment, neither of us said anything— indeed, what was there to say? I had been directed to this room to practice; surely he knew that; after all, he was the one who had commanded it to be so. I was simply waiting for my new accompanist now; I had not expected him to be here. At last I broke the silence that was quickly freezing between us. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to release, and he strode into the room and began to deftly arrange the music he carried at the piano. “I have come to provide you with proper accompaniment, madame. As I recall, you insisted that the last pianist simply would not do, and demanded to be given an entirely new space in which to rehearse, along with an accompanist suitable for one of your abilities. I am merely here to provide you with the satisfaction of those perfectly reasonable demands, as I promised.” 

I felt my lips draw together in a thin line. “I was under the impression that I would be provided with another of the accompanists of Phantasma. I am aware that there are several.”

“The very best of which you have just recently dismissed,” Erik replied calmly. “If you wish to have a better pianist than the ones I have offered you so far, madame, I am afraid that I can place only myself at your disposal. I think you will find my abilities quite sufficient.” 

There was a long pause. I knew I could hardly refuse him; after all, I had made all of the demands that he had listed, and done so quite deliberately, knowing that it would cause him trouble; I had left myself little room to now deny his more than adequate solution. Eventually I sighed. “We both know it is not your abilities as an accompanist which I doubt, Erik.” 

He drew closer to me, so close that I could have reached out and taken his hand had I felt the inclination to do so. “What is it that you doubt then… Christine?” 

Pretending to gain a sudden interest in the view from the nearest window, I turned away from him and walked over to look out of it. “You know that as well as anybody. Why I am here— why I have agreed to sing for you again. Why my very soul seems hell-bent on destroying what little happiness I have been able to find, and why I do not seem to have the strength to resist it.” 

“Do you wish to leave, Christine?” Erik asked, a deep, unmistakable sorrow entering his voice. “There is a boat that leaves for France tonight, if it is so. If you wish to be on it with your husband and son, I will not stop you.” 

He was offering me the chance to leave. Perhaps he actually wanted me to go. Hot tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, although I could not say why. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, struggling to swallow them. 

“Is that what you want?” Erik repeated, a little more unsteadily this time. “Arrangements can easily be made.” 

“I swore to you that I would sing.” 

“And I released you from that promise when I learned of our son. The choice is yours now.”

“It never was mine, and it hardly is now,” I replied bitterly. “It is far easier to deny your commands than it is to deny myself.” 

“And so you do, in fact, wish to sing?” Erik asked. 

“How can I help it? The music is beautiful.” 

“It is hardly more beautiful here than it would be in Paris. Perhaps you would simply rather your audience be French than American.”

He was suggesting that I return to Paris and perform it there, as if I had intended to do so all along. But I could not— I could never perform in Paris again. He knew nothing of that awful night, when I had bared my soul before the music for the last time, and it had denied me and broken the spirit of my voice, shattering my uplifted soul along with it. The music was a strict and exacting master, and I dared not disobey even now— I could not bear to repeat the heartbreak and humiliation of my last performance. If I was to sing, it would be here on Coney— Paris would never hear my voice again. 

“No,” I said slowly. “If I am to sing, I will sing here— for you. I could do no less, in memory of all that we have been.”

Erik was silent, and, after a moment, I turned around. There were tears glistening in his golden eyes, and an unspeakable emotion in his countenance. I wished the mask was removed, so that I could see his entire face. Slowly, surely, I walked over to him, and, reaching up, I gently wiped the tears away from his visible cheek. He did not resist as my fingers found the edge of the porcelain mask and pulled it away so that I could wipe away those tears, too. When I had finished, he took my hand in both of his and pressed it tenderly to his lips for a long moment, and I let him. Then he gently took the mask from my fingers and replaced it, and, at last, he spoke. 

“Thank you.” 

I sighed. “There is no need to thank me, Erik. If I felt differently, I would choose differently.” 

He nodded in understanding, and seemed to be lost in thought for a little while. Then, “Do you regret it, Christine?”

“Regret what?” 

“Everything.” 

Inexplicable heat rose in my cheeks, and I looked down. “I cannot. You know that.” 

It was his turn to sigh. “Neither can I. Perhaps I should; far better men than I have been condemned to hell for far less. But we were…” 

“The stars and the moon and all the beauty and wonder of the night,” I finished for him. “All the raging passion of a summer storm and all the tenderness of the first, tentative snowfall. Blue fire on white, all the things the poets only dream of…” I trailed off, and was quiet for a moment. “Yes, Erik. We were. If only for one brief moment.” 

“And now… Christine?” 

I looked up at him. Now there was no going back; we had each chosen our paths, and there was no reversing those choices, or all the sorrow and pain that each of us had caused. There was no rewinding of the clock. There was no Angel of Music. Now… “We are old friends,” I said at last, pulling my hands out of his and turning away. “Nothing more.” 

“Nothing more,” he echoed, strangely, repeating my words as though to himself. “How, Christine? Is it even possible?” 

It wasn’t, and the truth was no less real for remaining unspoken. We both knew it. But I could not admit to it aloud anyway; I could not bring myself to tell him that. There was so much I wished I could tell him… but it was impossible; my tongue was too clumsy to form the words and there were too many years, too many misguided choices between us. I was no longer young Christine Daaé, who might have been free of the social and familial restraints that now bound Madame de Chagny, restraints that I was not sure I would cast off if given the choice. Perhaps my cup was bitter, but was it not by my own doing? And had I not received far more joy out of it than I deserved, first in Raoul’s tender love and care and then in Gustave? 

No, I could not tell Erik any of the things I wished I could say; I would not bring further sorrow upon the people I loved by my own actions, no matter what my own wishes were. Inexplicably I thought of how tenderly Raoul had kissed me goodbye that morning, and, desperately searching for an escape, I turned back to the piano and the forgotten music sheets. 

“Let me sing, Erik.” It was a rehearsal, after all. Surely he would not refuse me. But suddenly his manner changed; it was colder, more withdrawn, and he moved swiftly to the piano and closed the lid with a resounding bang. 

“It is hardly the time, Christine; don’t you think? You will be well prepared for the performance even if you do not practice this afternoon, and—” 

“I said let me sing!” I burst out, turning on him. He did not understand, and I could not explain it to him, at least not with the common language of my lips… but I could with my voice. With the voice that he had given me. “You have promised me ample rehearsal time, and I intend to use it whether you think I need it or not. I will sing, with or without your accompaniment; it is your choice only as to whether or not you will play.” 

For a moment I thought he would refuse; then he sat down at the piano and opened it again. “Very well. Shall we begin with some scales, just to ensure that your voice is in tune?” 

“My voice is in fine tune,” I replied, the condescending manner that had crept into his tone irritating me. “You may begin with the other aria that I brought with me from Paris, if you like, to ensure that I am properly warmed up.”

“Very well,” Erik repeated, his face like stone, and I turned away from him before my own countenance could betray me. He would forgive me— surely he would forgive me for my sudden outburst once I had sung for him. He did not know— could not know— that this was the same aria during which my voice had failed me in that last awful performance I had given in Paris, when I had needed to tell him all the things I could not admit even to myself, and had been met only with disaster. But it did not matter any more; he would hear it now. I would not fail this time. I must not fail. 

Behind me, Erik began to play, and I suddenly realized that I was shaking like a leaf. Suppose, even now, I could not tell him? Suppose, even now, he did not hear me, even through the music that he himself had taught me to sing? But there was no time for doubt. Erik hesitated for the briefest moment on the note after which I was to begin, as though he, too, were suddenly afraid. I took a deep breath, opened my lips, and sang. 

My voice filled the room with all of its old splendor and radiance, as it had not done for many years, and all of a sudden I knew that I would not fail. Erik’s playing guided me; my voice could not falter— it could not break. I was not safe, and I knew it; the music was wild and dangerous and full of all the passion I hardly dared feel— but I was free. If only for these few precious moments, I was Christine Daaé once more. 

I sang with my soul on my lips in that small, unassuming rehearsal room, all the heartache and pain and joy of the last ten years infusing itself into my song and sweeping me away in the torrent of intoxicating madness that I had created. I sang of the morning I had been told that Erik was dead, crying out with all the anguish that he had never known filled my heart, and I sang of that hidden, unspoken night on which we had shared all that it was possible for two human beings to share. I sang of the wild, untamed flame that rose in me when I thought of him, and I sang of the love that Raoul and I had shared, the love that I had made a mockery of with my own choices, and the scarce but precious joy that I had been granted over the years. Fierce joy and agony and passion and torment surged through me with all the strength of the ocean; indeed, it seemed as though the power of the ocean itself pulled the music from my heart, from my unresisting lips, and the entire room rang with the tortuous ecstasy of the sound even as my soul echoed it. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the aria was over, and the ringing echoes of my voice slowly faded from the now still air. 

I could have lain down and wept with sheer relief and pain and ecstasy then and there— my music had returned, and I knew it, and Erik— surely he knew it, too; he had always known, and he would now. My breath caught in my throat as the seconds began to pass, and still he made no response. If only I had the strength to turn around and look at him! But I did not; I was too exhausted from the all-consuming glory of the aria that I had just sung. And so there was silence for a long moment as I stood there, chest heaving, waiting. 

At last I heard a strange, almost choking sound from behind me. It almost sounded like Erik was crying. Then I heard the piano bench being shoved back, and the lid closing, and Erik’s footsteps as he walked over to the door and opened it. I did not turn to face him now— I could not; I was suddenly as afraid as I had been the first time I had sung for him, terrified that I would be condemned by the Angel of Music himself. The utter silence stretched on unbearably. Surely he did not intend to leave me here without saying anything whatsoever! I had just poured my very soul out to him; at least he would tell me something. Anything. Anything but this. My heart was pounding so loudly that I was certain he would hear it. Then: 

“I am sorry to hear that the rumors are true,” Erik said coldly, but there was a strange catch in his voice that I could not quite make out. “The lovely Miss Daaé has retained all the splendor of her voice, but has lost her soul.” Then he left, closing the door behind him, and I hung my head and wept bitterly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this was just a one-shot, but it didn’t feel fair to Erik or Christine to stop without taking Erik into account a bit more. So, um, here’s part 2, from Erik’s POV.

My clenched fists were trembling uncontrollably as I closed the door behind me. I could not stay; I did not trust myself to look Christine in the eyes, let alone speak. In an instant, she had undone all that I had tried to leave behind, to forget, for the last ten years… in a single moment, the life I had built here on Coney had revealed itself to me as what it was: a meaningless, empty facade, built upon the dust and ashes that now crumbled at my feet. Her voice— how had I forgotten what an exquisite and breathtaking instrument it was— what a flawless and beautiful vessel it was for her very soul, which she held so freely within the sacred confines of her song? It had been only because of her music and the strength that it bore within it that I had been able to even continue playing; left to my own devices, I would have broken down and wept without restraint at the sheer crystal loveliness of the first note. 

As soon as she had finished, I had only had one thought: to get away, to leave her, before I could do something that we would both regret later. I did not trust myself in her presence— how could I, with the power that she wielded so effortlessly, even unconsciously? We were old friends, and nothing more; she had said so herself and I would not deny her that claim, but in that aria, the music that had fallen from her lips had told a very different story, one that I knew could never come to fruition. There were too many years, and too many irreversible choices, between us now. Perhaps, if I had acted differently then, I might have been able to hope now. But it was too late, far too late, and I knew it, and although it was a bitter pill to swallow, I forced myself to do so resolutely. No matter what her song had seemed to convey, Christine could never be mine. 

So I had made a mockery of her; I had scorned her song and left her alone once more; what else was I to do? What did it matter that she had freely bared her soul before me once more? I had relinquished her to the vicomte long ago, and her hesitation, and the unmistakable pain and guilt in her eyes, told me that he had loved her with all the depth in his young, shallow heart, enough so that her betrayal of his love haunted her whether she was able to regret it or not. I would not ruin the one good thing I had done in my lifetime any more than I already had, I vowed. I owed that much to myself— I owed it to Christine. 

Gritting my teeth in silent frustration, I slammed the door to my workspace and flung myself into the fever of creation. Yes, I had been undeniably cruel to Christine that afternoon, and to leave her alone in the rehearsal room had been even more cruel, but I could not have possibly faced her just then. Picking up a pen and turning to the scattered papers on my desk, I swore silently to make this fresh hurt right— she had given me her music once more, and I would give her mine in return. When she finally sang the aria that I had so painstakingly crafted for her voice and hers alone, when she had finally been granted the ecstasy I knew it would bring her— surely then she would forgive me then. And as for now? Now, as Christine herself had said, we were simply old friends. Nothing more. 

Hours passed in a haze of oblivion as I worked, throwing myself headfirst into my obsession with flawlessness and splendor in a desperate attempt to drown out the regret and longing that was swiftly rising within me, threatening to overflow. I knew that Christine’s voice would soar far above my standard of perfection; I could do no less in my design. I had to accomplish this one thing, at least… to hear Christine sing for me again, to hear my music issue from her lips once more, in all the radiance and brilliance that the flame of our two souls could burn with… surely it would finally ease the ache. I would be whole again, as would Christine, and we would finally go our separate ways, complete. It was the least I could offer her now. 

At last, as the sun began to sink, setting the metal structures of Phantasma aglow with the reflection of its flame, my pencil dangled idly from my fingers; the fever of obsession had passed and I had been doing no more than drawing in circles for the [ast hour, my mind numbed nearly to a dull stupor. It was in this state that I heard a gentle knock at the door of my workspace, and I jerked upright, scattering several caressly placed papers. 

“What is it?” I called. Perhaps I had not been particularly productive, but it hardly lessened my irritation at being interrupted. The door slowly creaked open, and Fleck peered inside. 

“Sir?” 

“What do you want?” I snapped, more harshly than I intended to. Fleck tentatively pushed the door open a little further and tiptoed in. 

“Madame— Madame de Chagny is here, sir.”

“And?” I prompted impatiently, but something tight seemed to have lodged itself in my throat, and I could not swallow properly. Christine was here. Here, in the very heart of Phantasma… and she had come of her own accord… “Have you explained to her that I am extremely busy and do not appreciate being pointlessly interrupted?” I demanded. Fleck nodded. 

“She refuses to leave until she has spoken with you, sir.” 

“What if I do not wish to speak to her?” 

“Then she had said she will stay until you change your mind. She is very determined, sir; I think she would stay until morning if you made her wait that long.” 

“Very well,” I said at last, inwardly cursing Christine’s stubbornness. It would be useless to send her away, and I knew it; even if it were not, I was not sure I had the strength to do so. “Tell her she may come up if she wishes.” 

Fleck bowed, and withdrew, and I flung down my pencil with a sigh. I could not imagine why Christine might have come other than to reproach me for my actions that afternoon; after all, I had treated her with utter contempt, and then left her with what could only be termed as a cutting, unforgivable insult, as I had fully intended it to be. She had every right to be angry with me. 

Then I heard a soft rustle behind me, and turned around to see Christine ascending the last few steps of the spiraling staircase that led to my aerie, a sheaf of paper clutched to her chest and her long silken skirts sweeping behind her. If she was angry, then her countenance did not betray it; she seemed subdued, even calm. Perhaps it was resignation. I stood, and bowed a little in greeting. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, madame?” 

“Enough, Erik,” she said firmly, with a strange catch in her voice. “You know my name; we have known each other too long and too well for these formalities to be less than absurd. Unless you would like me to address you as ‘sir’, I would ask that you call me Christine. As you always have.” 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, then, Christine?” I replied. It came out more coldly than I had intended. Christine held out the papers that she carried, and I instantly recognized them as the music sheets that I had left at the piano earlier. 

“You left these,” she said quietly. “I thought you might want them back.” I stared down at her, barely comprehending the words. Her lips were set in determination, but there were traces of tears on her cheeks; she had been crying. Perhaps I had been the cause. 

“Why would I want them?” I echoed at last, accepting the loose papers from her delicate fingertips. She would not meet my eyes. 

“For rehearsal tomorrow.” 

Rehearsal. I would have to face another rehearsal with her, and hear her sing again without betraying how deeply it affected me… “I do not think you require quite as much time to rehearse as you think,” I said at last. “As you said this afternoon, your voice is in fine tune, and—” 

“Then why did you mock me?” she demanded, suddenly looking up at me. I was taken aback by the sudden brilliance of her eyes. “Why, Erik? Surely I am not quite so soulless as all that. Tell me: am I?” 

I made no response. I wished I could look away, but Christine’s eyes held mine in a lock of steel, and I found I could not. 

“Tell me,” she repeated fiercely, quivering from head to toe with some intense, unspoken emotion. Soulless, indeed! Nothing could be further from the truth. “Do I not deserve to know, if I am to sing for you again?” she demanded. “I want the truth, Erik.” 

“You want the truth, Christine?” I repeated after her. “The truth is a strange and dangerous thing, you see, and very few can face it without fleeing or being broken entirely. Why else do you think I would wear a mask?” 

There was silence for a long moment. I was almost certain Christine would hear my heart pounding. But she only stood there, holding my gaze firm with her brilliant, unyielding eyes, searching for something. I could not tell what it was. 

“Take it off, then,” she said at last. “Let me look you in the face, and tell me the truth then if you dare. Have I truly lost the soul of my music— of the music you gave me?” 

I wished I could refuse her, but I could not, and we both knew it. Slowly, I reached up my hands to my face and removed the mask, revealing the monstrosity behind it. Christine did not flinch or draw back, as I had seen so many do; rather, something in her countenance softened, and I could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. Seconds passed as I looked down at her grimly, but she did not falter, and when she finally spoke, her voice was very soft. 

“Erik… please.” 

I gently extended my hand and wiped away the tears on her cheek with my thumb. She closed her eyes as my fingers brushed her skin, but did not pull away. Then she reached up and covered my hand with her own, gently holding it to her cheek, and opened her eyes to look at me again. 

“Please, Erik; tell me. Have I lost my music?” 

My throat tensed with tears, but I firmly forbid them to fall. Christine was silent, waiting. Some instinct told me that she would not ask again; if I was to answer, it would have to be now. 

“No, Christine,” I told her at last, my voice choked and quiet. “I had merely forgotten how beautiful your voice— and your soul— was.” 

And I finally let the tears roll down my face, spilling over every ridge and crevice of my malformed cheek, and my tears were reflected on Christine’s sparkling cheeks as we shared the silence that rested between us.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think; I really am not sure exactly what I did here and any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Also, bonus points to anyone who can guess the song from Songs For A New World that I referenced (lol but kinda seriously).


End file.
